MUSIC REVIEW : Russian Romantics: Serenity at the Bowl

In the wide open spaces of Hollywood Bowl, what counts more than who .

Tuesday night, the guest on the Philharmonic podium was Eri Klas, a little-known conductor from Estonia whose only previous engagement in California had been a UCLA concert in 1991. The soloist was Olli Mustonen, a 25-year-old Finnish pianist who had appeared here without much fanfare three times in the late 1980s.

Both gentlemen are obviously talented. Neither can be expected to sell many tickets. Nevertheless, a large and happy crowd--officially tabulated at 11,066--turned up to cheer Klas and Mustonen on a warm and damp night at Cahuenga Pass.

Why? The answer can be reduced to two words: Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff.

Never underestimate the attraction of a Russian Romantic indulgence. As Confucius said, an audience that can hum along will come along.

The climax of this hum-along festival took the familiar, rambling form of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 5. An asterisk next to the title in the program referred the reader to an odd commercial pitch in tiny print at the bottom of the page:

“Recorded by the Los Angeles Philharmonic, Zubin Mehta conducting, on Decca/London.”

That recording was made decades ago. It isn’t even listed in the catalogue anymore. Countless Fifths have come and gone in the interim.

For those who cherish memories of Mehta’s flamboyant Tchaikovsky, however, Klas’ interpretation must have seemed both subdued and austere.

Here was a Fifth without much blood, sweat and tears. The tempos varied from slow to moderate. The tragic accents were muted. The heroic climaxes stopped far short of frenzy.

Klas obviously understands the noble Russian tradition. He knows that Tchaikovsky built ample sentiment into his score. He knows that a conductor merely underscores the obvious if he offers too much additional stress. In the process, the pathos can turn banal.

It is possible, of course, to exercise expressive restraint and still find more excitement in the Fifth than Klas conveyed on this occasion. Nevertheless, one had to be grateful for the clarity that he enforced in the opening andante, for the flowing lyricism that he brought to the second movement and the gentle lilt with which he made the orchestra dance through the third.

This was a mellow, thoughtful, always authoritative performance. The Philharmonic--which no doubt could play this symphony with no conductor at all--responded sensitively, if not impeccably, to Klas’ simple urgings.

Upon his entrance at concerto time, Mustonen inspired a little bemused muttering out front. Instead of the conventional dinner attire, he chose to sport a short white jacket that seemed more fitting for a busboy than a keyboard virtuoso.

One soon saw the method, however, in Mustonen’s sartorial madness. In moments of Rachmaninoff rapture--courtesy of the popular Paganini Variations--he repeatedly rose from the piano bench, reinforcing the sonic agonies and ecstasies with agitated body language. This would have been an awkward time to get tangled in one’s coattails.

The pianist may have looked a bit overwrought, but his music-making seemed remarkably controlled. He even managed to play down the gush of the beloved 18th variation.

Given the obvious pitfalls, one had to admire his understatement, not to mention his poise. One also had to admire the dynamic power and crisp bravura with which he triumphed over the less rhapsodic hurdles.

As a prelude to the two major chestnuts, Klas offered a pair of minor bonbons by Anatol Liadov: first the shimmering chromaticism of “The Enchanted Lake” (1909), then the mild grotesquerie of “Baba Yaga” (1904). One wanted to hear more.